Martin St
by Deschain
Summary: Every town has its backroads. Some are just darker than others.
1. ashes & Ghost

Ashes and Ghost

The fog is so thick it seems to penetrate his skull, as well as every crevice. There is no sound of nature audible, save a rustling wind, moaning in his ear. He stands there, breathing calmly, letting his eyes adapt to the unique form of snow-blind exhibited by the mixture of fog and the sunlight's reflection. His clothes are dampening from all the moisture. The gaping maw of a tunnel through which he came is fading, losing ground in his memory, like he just started here. He reads the weathered sign.

_Welcome to Silent Hill_

The ethereal atmosphere of the place unnerves him, but he has learned to deal with such emotions, considering he can sometimes get the same feeling when he opens the closet door, or gets into bed; the notion, at times the _knowledge_ that something will reach out and latch on to you. He's often been in situations that, while dissimilar to this place, facilitated the same feeling of the calm before the storm, so he doesn't pay attention to his gut, which is screaming for him to leave this place, run now, forget the car and don't even _think_ about looking back. He may not have nerves of steel, but he occasionally makes use of an iron will. His gut remains ignored because he used to run at what he thought was behind him, but no longer. He will not be afraid. Has no reason to be.

He walks on, remembering the glimpse of the lake he saw earlier, and wonders how it could look so pristine. He then remembers this is a tourist town, and upkeep is surely a requisite for a good economy, but this leads him to wonder why anyone would come here in the face of all…this ubiquitous…_fog_. _Only someone looking for a place to hide_. The realization hardens his resolve, his willingness to finish unpleasant business. _He has to be here_.

He marches down the hill, leaving his car in front of the boarded-up thru-way.

He crosses the guardrail, not knowing what to expect, but certainly not expecting…nothing. The town is dead silent: no engines, transformers, or generators. He feels an apprehensive knot turn in his stomach, a decidedly powerful reaction. The sun is constant, yet dim, and the fog is a wall as it sits all around him, unmoving. He walks on, past the rusty cars, the empty streets, and the dark edifices looming on either side. He is reflected on all the shop's windows, depriving him of the ability to see the other side and amplifying his isolation.

The anxiety is not dissolving. Rather, it is starting to accrue, and he can't dismiss the feeling offhand. _Stop being a chickenshit. _He tries to calm himself while walking down the center of some street; he couldn't read the sign due to the fog. He walks up directly to a street sign, at least to calm down his disorientation, if not to serve as a point of reference for some later time. It reads the intersection of Saul and Harris when he sees a sign for Neely's Bar, 'Next Left, on the corner of Neely and Sanders.' He stops in his tracks.

Bars in small towns are the refuge for the castoffs of society; the denizens too socially inept or innately fucked up to hold a conversation or a meaningful relationship are quickly ostracized. Acquiescing to the pack instincts of primates, these rejects ostracize themselves further by congregating at a bar and drinking until they forget their woes. In short, the detritus of society, a way station for the washouts of the world. Precisely who he expects to be looking for. He heads off. It is lucky the bar is so close, because that feeling in the pit of his stomach is growing. He hasn't felt this sort of apprehension since…

He's about to give in and flat-out run for the rest of the way when he sees a light flicker and partially illuminate the entrance to the bar, machinery wheezing to life in some near back alley. The door is open, and the light stays on, albeit a dismal, lonely light. He can identify with it, however, and is comforted by the sign of human presence, or at least working electricity. He strolls in. The bar is mainly unremarkable; a few clean tables with chairs stacked on top of them, unlit neon signs everywhere. The only thing standing out is the smell, which is reminiscent of something he cannot place, vaguely unpleasant…

"Hello? Anyone in here?" he asks, impulsively looking out the windows to check his surroundings.

"Yes, I'm here. What can I do you for?" comes the twangy reply from behind the bar, accompanied by shuffling noises.

He exhales a deep sigh of relief, the knot in his stomach unrolling.

"Man, I thought I was the only one in this town." He says, walking towards the bar.

"Noooope. Plenty of interesting people around here, I can attest to that." The voice's answer wavers with jocularity.

"Well then, where is everybody? Some kind of parade, or maybe…"

The bartender laughs him off good-naturedly.

"No, no, no, people around here are quiet. Not necessarily shy, they just show up when they want to. Fairly easy to do, what with the abundance of fog and all. There is a reason this town was christened Silent Hill."

The delivery may have been deadpan, but he still thinks it was an acerbic comment, though he doesn't know why. Sounds like the moving of boxes in the storeroom continue.

"How does that explain that there are no cars running, or children yelling, or electricity humming above me, or even that there hasn't been one sign of---"

"Now look here, young fella, you a city boy or something?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Well, then it's fairly obvious to me that this town isn't quite your cup of tea, now is it? Yes, this place is very quiet. True, you don't hear some modern amenities being used. Is that any reason to think this is some sort of ghost town? I mean, what kind of crazy talk is that? This town is a major tourist spot, hotels and such owned mainly by old people. And this town is currently out of season, so what most of the old folks have left to do is count their money and sleep. So no one's out. This town also elects to try and conserve energy, so on Sundays, when most, if not all businesses are closed, they turn off the juice. If there's a kid in town, they wouldn't be here; they'd be off in the residential district, or playing around at the lake. And a bar usually doesn't heat up until evenings.

And just because the noise level's a bit low and unaccustomed for your tastes you have to assume fantastical theories?"

He realizes his fear has gotten the best of him, and thus he is definitely screwing up his first impression. Not the easiest way to coax information out of someone.

"Look, sir, I'm sorry for being abrasive. You're right that this place unnerves me, but it's not the absence of sound, it's more the absence of people. It's just that I'm not used to being afraid in addition to being alone."

A good lie is mostly genuine, the one where a small investigation yields actual truth, but is false in its entirety. Yes, he is afraid, but he's only sorry that he forgot how to handle himself for a moment. He's sure the bartender will believe him. He's done this too many times to lose the touch now.

"Well…apology accepted."

Having ameliorated the bartender's irritation, he hopes he can get something out of this guy. If a bar is a way station, then the bartender is the guide, full of local legends, an encyclopedic knowledge of his regulars, and hopefully a snapshot memory of the irregulars…

"What kind of interesting?" he poses with a slight grin, affecting familiarity while taking a seat on a barstool.

"Oh, most any kind you can think of. Drunks, eccentrics…hey, you mind not leaning on the counter? I just polished it, and it takes a few minutes for the wood to absorb the stuff. Thanks."

He wrinkles his brow slightly and leans back, looking at the bar, which the bartender must take very seriously, because it has an almost unbelievably rich sheen already. He can see himself clearly, even the stubble that dots his neck, but not his face is discernable. He must be trying to waterproof it…

_Wait._

He squints to see into the backroom; it's dimly lit, and it stretches beyond his view to the side. Did the bartender move into view, see what he was doing, make his request, and move back to his work? Wouldn't his voice sound different as he moved into the doorway, and then back again? He couldn't see the bartender, how could the bartender see him? Unless there were security cameras, but this was a small-town bar…He wants to lean over and check to see that the bartender isn't squishing himself up under the bar, but he can see clearly already. Nothing there but a bucket marked POLISH, an unused brush lying next to it.

_Something isn't right here._

"…yeah, so anyway, crazies, loners, an occasional psycho with a penchant for starting bar fights…typical thoroughfare. Who are you looking for?" The voice replies casually.

No use dancing around the question he needed to ask. This guy didn't miss a trick.

"Anybody new come in the past few days that you remember? Anyone you remember as…unusual?"

"Hey, look, you need to stop trying to be secretive around here, friend. You stay in a town like this long enough, we learn all your secrets. Concerning your 'unusual' quarry; well, that all depends on perspective. How about you tell me what he looks like, and I'll tell you if he's made tracks through here."

He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a worn leather-bound notepad.

"Five foot-eleven, heavyset, tan, brown eyes, shoulder-length black hair, often travels under the names Shane Becker, Saul Berrman, Sherman Betts…"

"Sherman's uh, a whaddayacallim, an alias? Well, if that don't beat all."

His head immediately lifts up.

"You've seen him?"

"Someone's started coming in here every two or three days goes by the name of Sherman, but he don't look nothing like what you're talkin' about." He checks his notebook again.

He is tapping the notebook with his pen excitedly as he asks, "Does he have a tattoo of the infinity symbol on the back of his neck?"

"What's the infinity symbol look like?"

"A horizontal 8, or something similar."

"Yeah, that must be Sherman. But something must have happened to him recently, because he's lost a good bit of weight."

"How recently have you seen him?"

"I don't rightly know."

"Do you know where I can find him?"

"I don't know. What kind of business do you have with a man who uses fake names?"

He doesn't appreciate being delayed like this.

"My own."

"Oh, ain't that clever."

"I don't see how this concerns you."

"Well, if you're going to force this guy from where he don't want to leave, which seems to be here, and wish to do ill will on him, I ain't inclined to be the one to let that happen."

Now he's beginning to lose his temper. He doesn't let it show, that wouldn't help. For now, he sweetens his entreaties.

"Look, all I want to do is talk with him. He hasn't done anything wrong. I just want to talk with him, and I would sincerely appreciate it if you could help me."

A pause, like the bartender seemed to be considering it. He leans in closer.

"Sorry, boy. Sherman won't be leavin' on your account."

He realizes he still hasn't actually _seen_ the bartender, and putting a pleading face with his pleading voice could only improve the sympathy factor_. But hadn't the bartender seen him already when he asked him to move back?_ No matter, it would satisfy his own curiosity if he saw the bartender. It would give him some more indicators of how to work him. He moves around the bar quietly and begins heading towards the backroom. As he does, the light in the bar begins to dim. He pays it a quick glance and keeps moving. That smell he's noticed since the beginning is getting pungent, too.

"All we seem to be doing is arguing. Let's try to get off on the right foot. What's your name?" he asks the bartender while pacing towards the backroom, the singular light fading.

"I'm known around here as Sully. And yourself?"

The flight flickers madly, trying to stay alive.

"It's M-"

He reaches the storage room as the light goes out, and is knocked down by a huge rush of wind. Immediately afterwards the whole building is shaken by a shattering thud, knocking all the bottles off the shelf. They shatter on the floor. Undeterred, he looks inside, and judging by the ambient light outside, there is no one is in the storeroom, and there are no boxes. The room is barren.

_Something is very wrong in this town._

He is on one knee when his foot lands on a bottle, sliding out from under him. He falls, grasping for the bar and missing, his hand landing in the bucket of POLISH and tipping it over. He gasps in surprise at the sudden intensity of the smell. He is bringing his hand to his face when the synapses in his brain connect. His eyes widen in horror as realizes what the bitter, acrid, copper-ish smell signifies. He knows that stench all too well, from too many places, and too many people.

_Something is _very_ wrong in this town._

The light burns back on, shedding bleak light across the bar. The twangy voice of Sully, now two octaves deeper, resonates from all around.

**"You got that right**."

Disclaimer: Silent Hill is totally owned by Konami, and thus I have no legal domain there. Please don't sue.


	2. An Abstruse Hemorrhage

A World of Madness

Light invades the room, revealing every cranny as surely as the fog infiltrates outside, blinding him. He stumbles forwards into the storeroom, frantically searching for a way to get out of that light without having to go back outside. He slips over his legs and lands on the concrete floor with his behind, pain shooting up his tailbone. He grimaces as he covers his eyes. A whooshing sound rushes past him, and the light is dimmer. He realizes the door has closed, but the light remains. It steadily grows, way past the point of luminescence for one light-bulb. Eventually the entire room is illuminated from the light forcing through the cracks in the door. There is no sound. He looks around, definitely not wanting to go out there, but if he has to, a blunt object of some sort would definitely give him confidence. He looks around helplessly, knowing what he saw before he came in here, which was nothing. But he did not see the wall directly next to the door, it was impossible to see before he came in here. It holds a rotary phone on a table, and an axe and pistol mounted on the wall. He slides over, not getting up, passing the ever-brightening doorway. His face slides past the keyhole, and the light is so fiercely bright he has to stop and close his eyes for a few minutes. He opens them as he approaches the other wall, and the room is lit as if by halogen. He picks up the axe, feels the heft of it, and sets it back down, placing his hands on the pistol. He picks it up, checking to see if it is loaded, but he can see the muzzle has been filled with something. He sets it down and picks up the axe again, because as a cudgel the axe trumps the pistol any day of the week. The light is now so bright he has to squint once again. He can hear scratches on the door as he picks up the phone, hoping against hope, and nearly drops it in surprise when a feminine voice begins pleading on the other end. He hadn't touched the rotary dial.

"You have to stop it! It's going to Mark you!" the voice says.

"What's it? The thing on the other side of this room?"

"Yes! It's almost found the way out! If it does, my ability to help you and others will disappear! Please! You have to find a way out! _Please!_" the voice beseeches.

"I'm stuck in here! And how am I supposed to get out and stop that thing? Is it the same thing as Sully?"

"Its name isn't Sully! It's Solku…" the voice is cut off by an ear-splitting scream emanating from the phone and the other side of the door.

He drops the phone, and tightens his grip on the axe. He steps towards the door, the light still growing, past any point of reference, the screech entrenched in his eardrums. He rears back on the axe and swings at the door. He hits the doorknob, which falls off inaudibly. The light recedes, as does the noise. He is left in absolute dark, and doesn't bother to swing again, just falls on his knees and feels for where the doorknob was. He feels an indentation and knows that is where the hole should be, but it is smooth as marble. He realizes that there is no way that the light could have come through the keyhole. The door couldn't have solidified! But then he realizes that apparently, things like that are possible in this place, especially in light of what just happened. He hears faint scratches on the door, and puts his ear to the door. A hissing becomes audible. Sully's voice, now dropped an octave or three, speaks to him.

"_This is how you end_."

He gets to his feet and raises the axe again, but before he can do anything else the door shakes in its frame from a mighty blow. He jumps back, his right hand lands on the axe, cutting deep. He gasps at the pain as the door rocks in its foundations again, the floor shuddering as well. If it can do that, an axe will not stop it. He has to find a way out. He tries to calm himself down enough to think, but the amount of adrenaline percolating through his system is screaming for some kind of action. His imagination is not helping. He winces every time the door is hit, wondering why it won't buckle. He moves away from the door into a corner, trying to calm himself.

_There must be a way out of this bar._

His head swims with an idea, his good hand beginning to sweep the floor for an answer. He goes on like this for a few minutes, his concentration allowing him to blissfully ignore the savage pounding. His hope loses color the longer he takes. He stops and collects himself, only to jump at another BAM of fury. He finds the corner where he set his axe down and picks it up. He then systematically runs his bloody hand along the floor slowly, as if he were mowing a lawn with his hand. He can tell what part of the floor he has covered, because they are sticky with dried blood. In what he thinks is dead center of the room he finds the answer; a latch. He is just in time; the door, suddenly reinforced though it may be, is coming apart. Particles fly as he gets his finger in the latch and pulls up. He is greeted by a vicious retching, and the guttural sound catches him off guard. Slack-jawed, he is hit full in the face with what has to be vomit of some sort. He feels organisms writhing within, and sucks in a deep breath of surprise, taking some of the worms for the ride. He immediately gags as he feels something shunting itself out of the manhole. It lands to his right with a wet splotch, a silhouette that has no outline. He gropes for the axe, finds it, raises it, swings down. The axe connects, a wet substance splashing on his face. The monster writhes in pain, blood gushing from the deep, gaping lesion while he bellows at it in a mixture of terror, adrenaline, and conquest. The primal victory is cut short by an answering roar. Splinters from the door pinprick his skin as he moves to pull the axe out of the beast. It comes out with a delicious sound, and he speeds to the hatchway, quickly moving down. He stops and turns when he is all the way down, wanting to glimpse the visage of his tormentor. He gets no chance, for as he is turning he is knocked down the stairwell, the latch closing apace. The metallic clang is definite, sealing him from the tentacled monster. _Is that what I really saw?_ He can't tell for sure. He'll think about it later. He searches for the axe again in darkness, thinking how lucky he is to not have really taken damage from it this time. He finds a sturdy piece of wood on the floor. He shakes his head, sighing, and feels for the head of the axe. It is right next to the wall, the texture disturbingly close to how the floor felt once he had searched for the latch with his bad hand. He is momentarily thankful for the black.

Walking down the narrow hallway, his wingspan brushes both walls. He doesn't know how long he walks, or how far, but he has to do something to take his mind off the maddening combination of feeling utterly alone and knowing he is not so. He ruminates on his situation: alone, terrified, bleeding, bottoming out after his high from adrenaline shock, arms getting tired from holding them perpendicular to his frame for so long, and…very wet pants. A_t least I can solve one of those._ He pulls the hilt of the axe out, and lets it feel for the borders of the walls instead. He pulls the head of the axe out, doing the same for the other side. Thoughts turn back to his condition. The cut in his hand pulses in pain, timed with his heartbeat. He pulls his cell-phone out; nonplussed to feel the two pieces fall out of his palm. The stain in his legs is drying, but he knows it will begin to chafe if he doesn't wash or find a new pair of pants. He has no fucking clue where he is. He doesn't want to solve all his problems right now, acknowledges the futility of it, so he blanks out, thinking only of how to get away, or at least turn some lights on. _This place may take my body, but it won't take my mind_. The unconscious conclusion that associates the evil pursuing him with the area it inhabits doesn't elude him. It's definitely not a serial killer. _Unless it killed the populace of the whole town_. There was a monster, or something to that effect, but it has control over this place. _Then why did the door close?_ He hears the creaking of a hatch swinging wide, only it is coming from in front of him. He freezes in his tracks. He moves forward, and hears that the scraping sound of the hilt on the wall has ended. Praying for an exit, he feels open air to his left, turning his head. Husky breaths are only a few feet away, emanating from the open side. He turns slowly, hiding the head of the axe in the small of his back. He shifts his weight, and the breath gasps. He hears broken sounds under the breathing.

"—flam---ee---he----omin--"

_KLANK!_ The thud comes from his right, far away from him, but jolting in the silence. The speaker whispers fiercely.

"_No_."

He is pushed aside as footsteps fade, flying down the hallway. He falls into the open space, raising the axe head. He feels something protruding from the wall. He runs his fingers over it, now accustomed to the slime coating all down here. It is a light switch.

He flicks it on, and jumps at the sounds that immediately follow. The hallway is brightly lit, the low rumbling of mechanics coming to life enveloping him. He mentally realigns himself as he takes a slow step out, preparing himself to look in the distance, but he is cut short by what he sees directly in front of him; the wall is alive! He tries to discern one general direction, but the wall is writhing left and right at every angle, a gargantuan piece of flesh finally getting past the hatch in the bar to finish the job it so juicily wants to complete… He calms down. The wall is not moving at him, only laterally. It can't be flesh. He steps out, daring to place his hand on the surface with the aid of his eyes. He jerks his hand back. _It _is _flesh!_ As he jerks his hand back, he can see that it is layer upon layer of intestine, on some type of pulley system. He sees that the intestines are filled with something. He does not wish to find out what, only hoping against hope it is not what he suspects. He turns his head, taking in the view of roiling intestine on either wall, as far as he can see. He has walked a ways from the bar. Trying to keep the bile down, he turns his head to the left, and he sees that while it may not have been _the _monster that opened up the hatch, it is sure as hell _a _monster. He can't see much of the humanoid, only its humongous, pyramidal red head, and that it is growing larger. _Not growing larger, walking towards me_. The knot in his stomach is so tight it hurts. He pulls back into the indent of the hallway, resting his against the wall. He must think of a way out. _Again. Fuck_.

He hears a scream in the distance, and in his heart knows the whisperer has met a bad end. He sits there, trying to think of a way to handle this when he hears footsteps approaching, and a strange grinding he cannot place. He looks out, and the monster is coming out of an unseen branch in the hallway, much closer than he had anticipated. The monster is wearing what looks to be a filthy white smock and an oddly grotesque, blackly red helmet, reminding him of a French film he once saw. He does not think when he stands up, takes the axe head, and chunks it at the monster wildly. The axe hits the monster dead on, but what has to be a steel helmet deflects the blade harmlessly. The wall gushes blood as a coil is severed, coating the monster. His grip on the hilt of the axe tightens.

_I came down, went one direction, didn't turn. I'm not going back. The light switch was on my left. That leaves the branch in the hallway and the other end. Both of which can only be accessed by getting past…that Red-headed thing. _He manages to chuckle at the notion of the demon being a redhead. The laughter escalates to an uncontrollable cackle, sucking out all the breath he has to give. He can feel his mind trying to snap, to break in two, so at least one piece can find solace somewhere else. He fights to calm himself, a plan formulating in his head. _It's a demon. A Red Demon, _he reassures himself. Blood is flowing past him, showing no signs of slowing down, soaking the bottom of his clothes. He hears the footsteps of the Demon, sees the reflection in the water. He forces himself to get out of the corner, because he wants at least a fighting chance. He stands, forcing his rubbery legs to still. He sees the Demon much more closely, sees that the grinding sound is a four foot blade with blood dripping from it. He can't tell if it is from the floor or from the whisperer, but in the Demon's other hand there is a coil of intestine, dripping with fresh gore. He falls to his knees, agape at the horror before him. The Demon raises the blade, but he dashes forward with all his might, knocking the Demon off his feet. The blade slashes up the wall, cutting every cord. The blood erupts over both of them as he kicks and swings the piece of wood desperately; barely able to see what he is doing through the fountain of blood. The Demon does not move as he tires himself out. Eventually he ceases, and steps over to the blade. He grabs it, puts up over his head, amazed at the weight, and drives it through the Demon. The blood continues to fly all over the place, the Demon's white now appropriately red. He is walking, the blood ankle-deep, when he comes across the branch. He sees a body mostly under the red, but can discern a concavity of flesh, where the chest was hollowed out. He does not want to go that way if he doesn't have to. The branch looks as long as the hallway the Demon showed up from. He is close to the hatch when he hears a loud splash. He turns back, and sees the Demon walking through the wall of blood like nothing had been done to him. It brandishes the blade, moving towards him. The blood is knee-deep when he wades up to the hatch. He quickly ascends the stairs, opens up the hatch and gets out. He puts the wood in between the hatch handles to slow down the Demon. He sees a chair and sits in it, about to hold his head in his hands when he sees how completely his hands are red. He looks up and sees a door; it goes outside, to the fog. The other door reads 'Neely's Bar Service Entrance" He knows he did not come up the same hatch he went in, but he also knows he traveled a great distance. He hasn't lost his sense of time yet. Has he? Blood begins to ooze out the hatch. He stares at it, numb. He doesn't know how, but he falls asleep.

When he wakes up, he doesn't feel refreshed. It is still light outside. He looks at the hatch.

There is no hatch.

He looks at the blood.

It is still there.

He gets up to leave, but not before dipping his hand in the blood. He writes a message on the wall, hopefully a warning to others who end up here. He finishes it, and walks out the door.


End file.
